... And the Policeman Smiled (28 page)

Under such unfavourable circumstances it was clearly not possible to pursue the
Youth Aliyah
dream of creating a genuine community and to run it on democratic lines like a Kibbutz. Everybody was far too exhausted. It was hard enough for Fred Dunston in his
capacity as treasurer to decide on priorities for what little money was to spare.

For instance, the children who let their clothes and shoes fall apart due to neglect had to be kitted out afresh. Complaints came of course from those who conscientiously looked after their own things with great care. They found that they were always last in line for anything new to be bought for them. It was not fair, but there was not much that we could do about it.

After careful consideration, Fred Dunston explained the intolerable conditions to those concerned and it was decided to arrange for the return of the children to Bydown.

By and large, it was the same story at many of the smaller training centres. At Hales Nurseries near Bournemouth, which took in over fifty children, conditions were very similar to those at Bydown. The nurseries closed down in February 1940, with many of the children and adults moving on to Bydown and Braunton.

At Llandaff Castle near Cardiff, children from
Gordonia, Young Macabee
, Zionist Youth and
B'rith Kodesh
(all Jewish youth movements connected with Zionism) divided their days between agricultural work, housework and study. At the outbreak of war, forty-five of these children were evacuated to the best known of all the agricultural training camps, Gwrych Castle in North Wales.

Gwrych Castle was offered rent-free by Lord Dundonald – who also made a grant towards rates and taxes and paid half the cost of repairs – a necessarily generous offer since the castle had been uninhabited for over fifteen years. (Ignoring the dereliction of the building, Norman Bentwich described it as ‘one of the stately homes of Britain'.) For
Youth Aliyah
the greatest virtue of the castle was the land that came with it – 500 rough but serviceable acres. The first residents arrived from Kent on 31 August 1939, a preemptive move against the imminent mass evacuation. Erich Duchinsky was looking after them.

One of my functions was to fetch children from Harwich and take them where they had to go … We were loaded onto a coach and, by-passing London, drove direct to Gwrych Castle. We arrived at midnight. Everyone was asleep. The driver banged on the gate, but we couldn't make ourselves heard. So then someone climbed over
the gate and found the caretaker, who said we were at the wrong place and that we had to go to the main gate to be let in. The caretaker was very grumpy at being woken up and we were not made to feel at all welcome. On a dark night Gwrych was a forbidding place with its high walls and towers and narrow slit windows. Very cold and very gloomy.

Striking images for the exhausted new arrivals! But there was more to come. They found that their only means of illumination was the collection of antique paraffin lamps and that there was only one boiler – which worked intermittently. One of the latest inmates noted ruefully, ‘Too much water runs down the ceiling and walls, instead of the usual way, through the water pipes.'

Forty-six years on, John Edelnand, now living in Luton, revisited Gwrych Castle and the neighbouring village of Abergele and found his memories of the local people still clear:

My first call was at the sheep and cattle auction market just off Market Street… I stayed for about half an hour then walked along Market Street and stopped outside
Siop Bach
. Mr and Mrs Jones used to be in that shop. I believe Mr Jones had a glass eye and he frequently presented me with a bar of chocolate without [asking me for] payment as he was aware that we did not receive any money for our work, nor from the Gwrych Castle management … This reminds me of a Mr Parry, who was in charge of the local cinema. He allowed me entry on my own, twice a week, free of charge. In return I had to rewind the films in the projection room ready for the next performance. I must say I enjoyed this very much as it was certainly very different from my daily chores such as tree felling, gardening and working on the farm.

I took the familiar Tan-y-Gopa Road and stopped at the Nant-y-Bela Lodge. Mr and Mrs Appleby and their four daughters and one son resided here. I had tea with this family many times, without the knowledge of the Castle management because this was strictly forbidden – only kosher food was allowed.

Tan-y-Gopa Road has a particular significance for me as it was here that I met my first local gentleman. I later learned that his name was Wil Da vies, always dressed in Wellington boots and chewing tobacco. I was walking down Tan-y-Gopa Road towards Abergele on the very first morning after my arrival in 1939 when Wil Davies came striding towards me. ‘I must practise my English,' I muttered to myself, having learnt the language for a short while
in the private Jewish school in Germany. ‘Goot mornink,' I said in a very crude German accent. He looked at me and after a pause said:
‘Bore da, box back. Sut ‘dachi heddiw?'
I was utterly amazed, not realising that Wales existed with its own language and culture … Wil Davies taught me quite a bit of Welsh, including most swear words, and he took great delight in listening to me when I tried to repeat them.

Whatever their achievements in stimulating Zionist beliefs, and their powerful impact upon individual pupils, the farming centres failed in their immediate objective of providing a loyal and dedicated labour force for the emerging Palestine. How could it have been otherwise?

In July 1939, a group of fifteen children from Great Engeham and Whittingham Farm School left for Palestine, but they were the last until after the war. Meanwhile, those waiting for the chance to go soon passed the age of seventeen, the upper limit for
Youth Aliyah
emigration visas. No wonder that after the intense psychological preparation for the big move which never came, many became disillusioned with
hachshara
and left.

Gwrych Castle was abandoned by
Youth Aliyah
in 1941. The casualty list soon spread to other centres such as Clonin Castle and Millisle Farm in Northern Ireland, where travel restrictions made communication with central office in London all but impossible.

Finance too became a problem. Before the war public appeals had raised sufficient money to keep
Youth Aliyah
afloat, but, when it became clear that large numbers of children would not soon be leaving for Palestine, the question arose as to who would care for them during their prolonged stay in Britain. In theory, those who worked on the farms were capable of supporting themselves. In practice, the employment was seasonal and ill-paid, covering little more than the necessities of life. In 1940, Lola Hahn-Warburg and Elaine Blond for the RCM joined with the Council for German Jewry to appeal for a state support for
Youth Aliyah
. They were unsuccessful. For the rest of the war
Youth Aliyah
depended on its own brave attempts at self-sufficiency and, when these failed, on charitable appeals and grants from the RCM.

‘When asked what I wanted to be I said a doctor. The
woman who was filling in the form said: “I can't put that
down – you must remember you are a refugee.”'

Middle-class children from a German Jewish background were weaned on a faith in learning as the way to a prosperous and fulfilling career. In Britain, their sights were lowered. They were expected to leave school at fourteen and go out to work to earn a living or take up technical training. After all, that was the prospect for the vast majority of British children. Why, it was argued, should refugees be treated differently?

As a senior Home Office official put it to an RCM conference in October 1942: ‘A refugee should have treatment comparable to that of an average English child in receipt of free education', adding, ‘It is not possible to provide continued education except in highly exceptional cases of brilliancy.'

All children were entitled to free elementary education up to the age of fourteen. Thereafter, a limited number of free places at secondary and university level were open to stiff competition. As newcomers to the British education system, not to mention the English language, refugee children started with two obvious disadvantages. But even when these were overcome, and ‘brilliancy' was proved beyond question, there was a psychological impediment which held back all but the most single-minded. Dorothy Hardisty, General Secretary of the RCM, knew the problem and advised making the best of it:

The general rule of the Movement is that at sixteen the young people shall enter some vocational training to fit them for a future which must, in the best circumstances, be arduous. It is recognised that few of them will have the opportunity, either in this country or elsewhere, to enter the liberal professions … and though this bears hardly on some, especially in view of the aptitude of Jewish children for intellectual pursuits, it is wise to take a realistic attitude to their future careers.

Quite simply, refugee children, however gifted, were not encouraged to rise up the economic and social hierarchy. The general view, extending to some members of the RCM, held that refugees belonged to the lower orders, and that no amount of hard work or intellectual promise on their part could alter their self-evident assumption.

One young refugee remembers: ‘When asked what I wanted to be I said a doctor. The woman who was filling in the form said: “I can't put that down – you must remember you are a refugee.”'

The prejudice was compounded by some foster parents who had a bias against education:

The main reason for moving Jean from school, as Mrs Gross puts it, is that ‘she does not believe in education'. Her own daughter is a shorthand typist and has not got matric, so ‘there is no reason why Jean should have a better education; on the contrary, it would be much better for her to get a shorthand-typing training and start work as soon as possible.'

Jean's headmistress did not agree; nor did Bloomsbury House. After a long argument, an offer from the Movement to take over financial responsibility for the girl's education persuaded Mrs Gross to change her mind, Jean stayed on at her grammar school.

When she came to England, aged five, Hannah was described as a bright if naughty child. The pattern continued throughout her time at school, leading her foster father to conclude that her education was a waste of time:

Accompanied by Hannah to see Mr Max Wolf to discussher future with him. He is determined that Hannah leaves Stoatle Rough at the end of the summer term. Feels that it is no disgrace to Hannah that she has not made more progress at school, there is not much point in her carrying on and that she should receive some proper training.

What he did not know, until an RCM visitor winkled it out, was that Hannah wanted to study art.

After some discussion he agreed that, provided Farnham Art School find Hannah's work sufficiently good to admit her, he has no objection.

Hannah was duly offered and accepted a place at Farnham.

With evacuation and the Movement's preference for rural settings for foster homes and hostels, younger children were often isolated in small village primary schools, where they were a curiosity to the other children and to the staff. Struggling with an unfamiliar language, the simplest conversations were misinterpreted, as when Herbert Hobden (Holzinger) failed to understand why ‘yes' was pronounced ‘yessah' at school until someone explained that it was the respectful way to address the teacher: ‘Yes, sir'.

Many experienced the feeling of guilt by association.

I didn't want to be known as a foreigner, having by that time learned something of the common English attitude to foreigners, and I especially resented being called a German. ‘Austrian' was not too bad, for after all Austria herself had been a victim of Nazism. I was furious when I was nicknamed ‘Girder' at school, and wished I hadn't such a silly name as Gerda and a surname which I had always to spell out to people.

And again:

I used to feel terribly embarrassed when people asked me to say something in German and always refused.

Sensitivities were sharply attuned. Vera Coppard, attending St Christopher's School at Letchworth, found it hard to take the persistent jokes about her being a Germany spy. The not unfamiliar childish jape of depositing a stink bomb in her locker caused her great anguish. Did they really hate her so much?

Another layer of guilt was added for brighter children who acclimatised sufficiently to start pulling ahead of their classmates. Said one: ‘I lied about my birth but I realised I was different and always coming top of the class did not help.'

Teachers were by no means free from prejudice. Even those who prided themselves on liberal views found it hard not to score points off the Germans, including refugee Germans. ‘British soldiers are the best in the world,' a schoolmaster told his class, adding, for the benefit of the
Kindertransporte
pupils, ‘You people did not think we had it in us.'

The natural tendency was to lie low:

I just went on at school – trying not to be noticed. Occasionally, by some obscure and innocently intended action, one would be picked out. I remember an incident when we all went into a room which was rather cold and I shivered. The teacher with us said in her wonderfully piercing upper-class voice: ‘People in England don't shiver when they come into a cold room. There isn't enough coal because
we're
fighting the
Germans.'

Probably the greatest difficulty for the RCM was in satisfying the needs of the older children, who had already achieved a sound basic education at home in Germany or Austria. By rights, as Dorothy Hardisty pointed out, these young people should have been destined for college or university. A British youngster from a poor background who gained higher school certificate had at least a chance of going on to university or technical college, with fees and maintenance paid.